When the punk revolution came love, it was
without expectation or blistering kindness, or any of
the million small things you attempted to explain to me, wasn't
anything you meant, or tried, or tricked; neither you nor your empty bullshit.
When I, packed as a hundred thousand others in this and every town
got stuck, sealed, crated away in despair, lost our damn minds even, you
from lack of meaning or retreat didn't even attempt to care or call, didn't
take the forty steps down your empty hall, you in your anger, your worry, simply
didn't matter.
We missed your face, Love, we missed
the grace that always should have been, all the passions calling.
It's not the way love, of all the lessons you dearly drilled in, worked
your hardest to impart on me or anyone that would listen.
Love it...mattered, and though like scales we cover our flesh
in all the colors we never could express or paint or carve
in any other language other than love, Love, it
mattered and though we got pummeled, pulled through this haze
the dark days passed and it mattered love!
We came out of our basements, traveled past all the thin roads
that meandered through your woods, sometimes hampered dearly
as we moved on a while yet again, love, yet it MATTERED. Love it mattered.
Dearest, that revolution you spent your dimes by, along with
all the follicles of your twitching hand arrived love, and
though you probably were too busy watching tube to care love,
it arrived in time, finally, and now as the time that matters most arrives love, we
all sit in the street ready now to listen.
...will you?
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